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MOIRA  O'NEILL 

SONGS  OF  THE 
GLENS  OF  ANTRIM 


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SONGS  OF 
THE  GLENS  OF  ANTRIM 


Originally  contributed  to  Blackwood* s 
Magazine  and  the  Spectator  '?  these  Songs 
of  the  Glens  of  Antrim  were  written  by 
a  [Glenswoman  in  the  dialect  of  the 
Glens,  and  chiefly  for  the  pleasure  of 
other  Glens-people."  The  little  book 
was  dedicated  to  ■  W.  C.  S.,"  and  so 
late  as  last  year  had  gone  into  a  four- 
teenth impression.  At  the  suggestion 
of  many  who  desired  to  see  these  songs 
in  a  format  that  did  no  injustice  to  their 
lyrical  beauty  I  reprint  them  entire  and 
in  the  order  arranged  by  Moira  O'Neill. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GLENS 
OF  ANTRIM  BY  MOIRA 
O'NEILL 


PORTLAND  MAINE 

THOMAS    B    MOSHER 

MDCCCCXI 


mHn^  mor^  ST^HEW 


CONTENTS 


THE  SONG  OF  GLEN   DUN 

3 

CORRYMEELA     .... 

5 

MARRIAGE          .... 

7 

SEA  WRACK       .... 

9 

A  BROKEN  SONG 

11 

THE  FAIRY  LOUGH 

12 

A  SONG  OF   GLENANN      . 

13 

"forgettin"' 

14 

DENNY'S  DAUGHTER         . 

16 

LOST 

.       18 

"CUTTIN'   RUSHES" 

.       19 

"THE  OULD   LAD"    . 

21 

THE  RACHRAY  MAN 

.      23 

BIRDS 

24 

JOHNEEN     

.      26 

"  BEAUTY  'S  A  FLOWER  " 

.      28 

THE  BOY   FROM   BALLYTEARIM 

.      29 

I   MIND  THE  DAY     . 

31 

GRACE  FOR  LIGHT 

.      32 

515046 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

THE  GRAND  MATCH  ...  34 
THE  SAILOR  MAN     .  .  .  .36 

AT  SEA 38 

"lOOKIN'  BACK"  ....  40 
THE  NORTH-WEST  —  CAN  ADA  .  41 
BACK  TO  IRELAND  ...        42 


VI 


SONGS  OF 
THE  GLENS  OF  ANTRIM 


THE  SONG  OF  GLEN  DUN 


URE  this  is  blessed  Erin  an'  this 

the  same  glen, 
The  gold  is  on  the  whin-bush, 

the  wather  sings  again, 
The  Fairy  Thorn  's  in  flower,  — 
an'  what  ails  my  heart  then  ? 
Flower  o'  the  May, 
Flower  o'  the  May, 
What  about  the  May  time,  an*  he  far  away  ! 


Summer  loves  the  green  glen,  the  white  bird 

loves  the  sea, 
An'  the  wind  must  kiss  the  heather  top,  an*  the 

red  bell  hides  a  bee ; 
As  the  bee  is  dear  to  the  honey-flower,  so  one 
is  dear  to  me. 

Flower  o*  the  rose, 
Flower  o'  the  rose, 
A  thorn  pricked  me  one  day,  but  nobody 
knows. 


The  bracken  up  the  braeside  has  rusted  in  the 

air, 
Three  birches  lean  together,  so  silver  limbed 

an'  fair, 
Och !    golden    leaves    are    flyin'   fast,   but  the 
scarlet  roan  is  rare. 

Berry  o'  the  roan, 
Berry  o'  the  roan, 
The  wind  sighs  among  the  trees,  but  I  sigh 
alone. 

I  knit  beside  the  turf  fire,  I  spin  upon  the  wheel, 
Winter  nights  for  thinkin'  long,  round  runs  the 

reel.     .     .     . 
But  he  never  knew,  he  never  knew  that  here  for 
him  I  'd  kneel. 

Sparkle  o'  the  fire, 
Sparkle  o'  the  fire, 
Mother  Mary,  keep  my  love,  an*  send  me  my 
desire  ! 


CORRYMEELA 

/^\VER  here  in  England  I  'm  helpin'  wi'  the 
W     hay, 

An'  I  wisht  I  was  in  Ireland  the  livelong  day  ; 
Weary  on  the  English  hay,  an'  sorra  take  the 
wheat ! 

Och  !   Corrymeela  an    the  blue  sky  over  it. 

There'  a  deep  dumb  river  flowin'  by  beyont  the 
heavy  trees, 
This  livin'  air  is  moithered  wi*  the  bummin, 
o' the  bees ; 
I  wisht  I  d  hear  the  Claddagh  burn  go  runnin' 
through  the  heat 
Past  Corrymeela,  w?  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

The  people  that 's  in  England  is  richer  nor  the 
Jews, 
There'  not  the  smallest  young  gossoon  but 
thravels  in  his  shoes  ! 
I  'd  give  the  pipe  between  me  teeth  to  see  a 
barefut  child, 
Och  !    Corrymeela  an    the  low  south  wind. 

Here  's  hands  so  full  o'  money  an'  hearts  so  full 
o'  care, 
By  the  luck  o'  love  !  I  'd  still  go  light  for  all 
I  did  go  bare. 


"God  save  ye,  colleen  dhas,"  I  said:  the  girl 
she  thought  me  wild. 
Far  Corrymeela,  an    the  low  south  wind. 

D'  ye  mind  me  now,  the  song  at  night  is  mortial 
hard  to  raise, 
The  girls  are  heavy  goin'  here,  the  boys  are 
ill  to  plase ; 
When  one'st  I  'm  out  this  workin'  hive,  't  is 
I  '11  be  back  again  — 
Ay,  Corrymeela,  in  the  same  soft  rain. 

The  puff  o'  smoke  from  one  ould  roof  before 
an  English  town ! 
For  a  shaugh  wid  Andy  Feelan  here  I  'd  give 
a  silver  crown, 
For  a  curl  o  hair  like  Mollie's  ye  '11  ask  the  like 
in  vain, 
Sweet  Corrymeela,  an    the  same  soft  rain. 


MARRIAGE 

T  MET  an*  ould  caillach  I  knowed  right  well 
-■*     on  the  brow  o'  Carnashee  : 
"The  top  o'  the    mornin' ! "   I    says   to    her. 
■  God  save  ye  ! H  she  says  to  me  : 
"An'  och  !  if  it's  you, 
Tell  me  true, 

When  are  ye  goin'  to  marry  ? " 
1 1  'm  here/'  says  I,  "  to  be  married  to-morrow, 
Wi'  the  man  to  find  an*  the  money  to  borrow." 

u  As  sure  as  ye  're  young  an'  fair,"  says  she, 

u  one  day  ye  '11  be  ugly  an*  ould. 
If  ye  have  n't  a  husband,  who  '11  care,"  says 
she,  M  to  call  ye  in  out  o'  the  could  ? 
Left  to  yerself, 
Laid  on  the  shelf,  — 
Now  is  yer  time  to  marry. 
Musha !  do  n't  tell  meye  '11  be  married  to-morrow, 
Wi'  the  man  to  find  an'  the  money  to  borrow." 

u  I  may  be  dead  ere  I  'm  ould,"  says  I,  M  for 

nobody  knows  their  day. 
I  never  was  fear'd  o'  the  could,"  says  I,  "but 
I  'm  fear'd  to  give  up  me  way. 
Good  or  bad, 
Sorry  or  glad, 


7 


*T  is  mine  no  more  when  I  marry. 
So  here  stand  I,  to  be  married  to-morrow, 
Wi'  the  man  to  find  an'  the  money  to  borrow,  f 

The  poor  ould  caillach.   went    down    the    hill 

shakm'  her  finger  at  me. 
"  'T  is  on  top  o'  the  world  ye  think  yerself  still, 
an'  that *s  what  it  is,"  says  she. 
But  thon  was  the  day 
Dan  Macllray 
Had  me  promise  to  marry. 
So  here  stand  I,  to  be  married  to-morrow,  — 
The  man  he  is  found,  but  the  money  's  to  borrow. 


SEA  WRACK 

P^HE  wrack  was  dark  an'  shiny  where  it 
*■        floated  in  the  sea, 
There  was  no  one  in  the  brown  boat  hut  only 

him  an'  me ; 
Him  to  cut  the  sea  wrack,  me  to  mind  the  boat, 
An*  not  a  word  between  us  the  hours  we  were 
afloat. 

The  wet  wrack, 
The  sea  wrack, 
The  wrack  was  strong  to  cut. 

We  laid  it  on  the  grey  rocks  to  wither  in  the 

sun, 
An*  what  should  call  my  lad  then,  to  sail  from 

Cushendun? 
With  a  low  moon,  a  full  tide,  a  swell  upon  the 

deep, 
Him  to  sail  the  old  boat,  me  to  fall  asleep. 
The  dry  wrack, 
The  sea  wrack, 
The  wrack  was  dead  so  soon. 

There*  a  fire  low  upon  the  rocks  to  burn  the 

wrack  to  kelp, 
There'  a  boat  gone  down  upon  the  Moyle,  an' 

sorra  one  to  help  ! 


Him  beneath  the  salt  sea,  me  upon  the  shore, 
By  sunlight  or  moonlight  we  '11  lift  the  wrack 
no  more. 

The  dark  wrack, 

The  sea  wrack, 

The  wrack  may  drift  ashore. 


10 


A  BROKEN  SONG 

T/f/  HERE   am    I  from  ? "     From    the 

green  hills  of  Erin. 
Have  I  no  song  then  f  "     My  songs  are  all 

sung. 
What  o'  my  love  ?  "     *T  is  alone  I  am  farin\ 
Old  grows  my  heart,  an*  my  voice  yet  is  young. 

"If  she  was  tall?  "  Like  a  king's  own  daughter. 
"  If  she  was  fair?  "    Like  a  mornin'  o'  May. 
When  she  'd  come  laughhV  't  was  the  runnin' 

wather, 
When  she  'd  come  blushin'  't  was  the  break  o' 

day. 

"Where  did  she  dwell?  "    Where  one'st  I  had 

my  dwellin\ 
" Who  loved  her  best?  "    There*  no  one  now 

will  know. 
"  Where  is  she  gone  ?  "    Och,  why  would  I  be 

tellin' ! 
Where  she  is  gone  there  I  can  never  go. 


11 


THE  FAIRY  LOUGH 

T  OUGHAREEMA !  Loughareema 
-■— '  Lies  so  high  among  the  heather; 
A  little  lough,  a  dark  lough, 

The  wather  's  black  an*  deep. 
Ould  herons  go  a-fishin*  there 

An*  sea-gulls  all  together 
Float  roun'  the  one  green  island 

On  the  fairy  lough  asleep. 

Loughareema,  Loughareema ; 

When  the  sun  goes  down  at  seven, 
When  the  hills  are  dark  an*  airy, 

'T  is  a  curlew  whistles  sweet ! 
Then  somethin'  rustles  all  the  reeds 

That  stand  so  thick  an'  even ; 
A  little  wave  runs  up  the  shore 

An*  flees,  as  if  on  feet. 

Loughareema,  Loughareema ! 

Stars  come  out,  an'  stars  are  hiding 
The  wather  whispers  on  the  stones, 

The  flittherin'  moths  are  free. 
One'st  before  the  mornin'  light 

The  Horsemen  will  come  ridin' 
Roun*  an*  roun'  the  fairy  lough, 

An'  no  one  there  to  see. 


12 


A  SONG  OF  GLENANN 

/^\CH,  when  we  lived  in  ould  Glenann 
^^      Meself  could  lift  a  song  ! 
An*  ne'er  an  hour  by  day  or  dark 
Would  I  be  thinkin'  long. 

The  weary  wind  might  take  the  roof, 

The  rain  might  lay  the  corn ; 
We  'd  up  an'  look  for  betther  luck 

About  the  morrow's  morn. 

But  since  we  come  away  from  there 

An'  far  across  the  say, 
I  still  have  wrought,  an'  still  have  thought 

The  way  I  'm  doin'  the  day. 

An*  now  we  're  quarely  betther  fixed, 
In  troth  !  there'  nothin'  wrong  : 

But  me  an'  mine,  by  rain  an'  shine 
We  do  be  thinkin'  long. 


13 


"  FORGETTIN' " 

P^HE  night  when  last  I  saw  my  lad 
■*■        His  eyes  were  bright  an'  wet. 
He  took  my  two  hands  in  his  own, 

"  'T  is  well,"  says  he,  "  we  're  met. 
Asthore  machree  !  the  likes  o'  me 

I  bid  ye  now  forget." 

Ah,  sure  the  same  's  a  thriflin,  thing, 
'T  is  more  I  'd  do  for  him  ! 

I  mind  the  night  I  promised  well, 
Away  on  Ballindim. — 

An'  every  little  while  or  so 
I  thry  forgettin'  Jim. 

It  should  n't  take  that  long  to  do, 

An*  him  not  very  tall : 
'T  is  quare  the  way  I  '11  hear  his  voice, 

A  boy  that 's  out  o'  call, — 
An'  whiles  I  '11  see  him  stand  as  plain 

As  e'er  a  six-fut  wall. 

Och,  never  fear,  my  jewel ! 

I  'd  forget  ye  now  this  minute, 
If  I  only  had  a  notion 

O'  the  way  I  should  begin  it; 
But  first  an'  last  it  is  n't  known 

The  heap  o'  throuble  's  in  it. 


14 


Meself  began  the  night  ye  went 

An*  has  n't  done  it  yet ; 
I  *m  nearly  fit  to  give  it  up, 

For  where  's  the  use  to  fret?  — 
An'  the  memory  's  fairly  spoilt  on  me 

Wid  mindin*  to  forget. 


15 


DENNY'S  DAUGHTER 

P\ENNY'S  daughter  stood  a  minute  in  the 
-■^     field  I  be  to  pass, 

All  as  quiet  as  her  shadow  lyin'  by  her  on 
the  grass ; 
In   her  hand  a  switch  o'  hazel  from  the  nut 
tree's  crooked  root, 
Well  I  mind  the  crown  o'  clover  crumpled 
undher  one  bare  foot. 
For  the  look  of  her, 
The  look  of  her 
Comes  back  on  me  to-day,  — 
Wi'  the  eyes  of  her, 
The  eyes  of  her 
That  took  me  on  the  way. 

Though  I  seen  poor  Denny's  daughter  white 
an'  stiff  upon  her  bed, 
Yet  I  be   to    think   there's   sunlight   fallin' 
somewhere  on  her  head  : 
She  '11  be  singin'  Ave  Mary  where  the  flowers 
never  wilt, 
She,  the  girl  my  own  hands  covered  wi'  the 
narrow  daisy-quilt.     .     .     . 
For  the  love  of  her, 
The  love  of  her 


16 


That  would  not  be  my  wife  : 

An'  the  loss  of  her, 

The  loss  of  her 

Has  left  me  lone  for  life. 


17 


LOST 

ISTEN,  oh  my  jewel,  I  would  say,  — 
-■— '     Only  wait  to'  I  can  get  the  word  : 
Sure  I  thought  I  had  it  sweet  an'  gay 

Like  the  bravest  song  o'  summer  bird. 
Faith  !  I  knew  it  well  an'  very  well 

When  this  hour  the  rain  begun  to  fall 
Now  the  sorra  one  o*  me  can  tell 

What  about  it  was  at  all,  at  all. 

Listen,  oh  my  jewel,  I  was  wrong,  — 

Never,  never  lived  a  word  so  sad ; 
Not  the  heavy  sea  that  drives  along 

Bears  such  weighty  th rouble  as  it  had. 
Och  anee  !  wi*  ne'er  a  voice  to  cry, 

Like  the  weary  cloud  or  drownin'  moon 
So  it  sank,  or  so  was  carried  by : 

Never  told  is  all  forgot  so  soon. 


18 


"CUTTIN'  RUSHES  " 

/^\  H  maybe  it  was  yesterday,  or  fifty  years  ago ! 
^^     Meself  was  risin'  early  on  a  day  for  cuttin' 

rushes. 
Walkin'  up  the  Brabla'  burn,  still  the  sun  was 
low, 
Now  I  'd  hear  the  burn  run  an'  then  I  'd  hear 
the  thrushes. 
Young,  still  young!  —  an*    drenchin'   wet  the 
grass, 
Wet  the  golden  honeysuckle  hangin'  sweetly 
down; 
Here,  lad,  here  !  will  ye  follow  where  I  pass. 
An'  find  me  cuttin*  rushes  on  the  mountain. 

Then  was  it  only  yesterday,  or  fifty  years  or  so  ? 
Rippin  round  the  bog  pools  high  among  the 
heather, 
The  hook  it  made  me  hand  sore,  I  had  to  leave 
it  go, 
Twas  he  that  cut  the  rushes  then  for  me  to 
bind  together. 
Come,  dear,  come  !  —  an'  back  along  the  burn 
See  the  darlin'    honeysuckle  hangin'  like  a 
crown. 


19 


Quick,  one  kiss,  —  sure,  there'  some  one  at  the 
turn  ! 
"Oh,    we  're  afther   cuttin'  rushes  on    the 
mountain." 

Yesterday,  yesterday,  or  fifty  years  ago.    .    .    . 
I   waken   out  o'   dreams   when  I   hear  the 
summer  thrushes. 
Oh,  that  's  the  Brabla'  burn,  I  can  hear  it  sing 
an'  flow, 
For  all  that 's  fair  I  'd  sooner  see  a  bunch  o' 
green  rushes. 
Run,  burn,  run  !    can  ye  mind  when  we  were 
young  ? 
The  honeysuckle  hangs  above,  the   pool   is 
dark  an'  brown : 
Sing,  burn,  sing  !  can  ye  mind  the  song  ye  sung 
The  day  we  cut  the  rushes  on  the  mountain  ? 


20 


"THE  OULD  LAD" 

T  MIND  meself  a  wee  boy  wi'  no  plain  talk, 

*•     An'  standin'  not  the  height  o'  two  peats ; 

There  was  things  meself  consated  'or  the  time 

that  I  could  walk, 

An'  who  's  to  tell  when  wit  an'  childer  meets  ? 

'T  was  the  daisies  down  in  the  low  grass, 

The  stars  high  up  in  the  skies, 
The  first  I  knowed  of  a  mother's  face 
Wi'  the  kind  love  in  her  eyes, 
Och,  och ! 
The  kind  love  in  her  eyes. 

I  went  the  way  of  other  lads  that 's  neither  good 
nor  bad, 
An'  still,  d'  ye  see,  a  lad  has  far  to  go ; 
But  the  things  meself  consated  when  I  was  n't 
sick  nor  sad, 
They  're  aisy  told,  an'  little  use  to  know. 
'T  was  whiles  a  boat  on  the  say  beyont, 

An'  whiles  a  girl  on  the  shore, 
An'  whiles  a  scrape  o'  the  fiddle-strings, 
Or  maybe  an  odd  thing  more 
In  troth ! 
Maybe  an  odd  thing  more. 


21 


A  man,  they  say,  in  spite  of  all,  is  betther  for 
a  wife, 
In-undher  this  ould  roof  I  live  me  lone ; 
I  never  seen  the  woman  yet  I  wanted  all  me  life, 
An'  I  never  made  me  pillow  on  a  stone. 
'T  is  "  fancy  buys  the  ribbon  "  an'  all, 

An'  fancy  sticks  to  the  young ; 
But  a  man  of  his  years  can  do  wi'  a  pipe 
Can  smoke  an'  hould  his  tongue, 
D'  ye  mind, 
Smoke  an'  hould  his  tongue. 

Ye  see  me  now  an  ould  man,  his  work  near 
done, 
Sure  the  hair  upon  me  head  's  gone  white ; 
But  the  things  meself  consated  'or  the  time  that 
I  could  run, 
They  're  the  nearest  to  me  heart  this  night. 
Just  the  daisies  down  in  the  low  grass, 

The  stars  high  up  in  the  skies, 
The  first  I  knowed  of  a  mother's  face 
Wi'  the  kind  love  in  her  eyes, 
Och,  och  ! 
The  kind  love  in  her  eyes. 


22 


THE  RACHRAY  MAN 

/^\CH,  what  was  it  got  me  at  all  that  time 
^-^     To  promise  I  'd  marry  a  Rachray  man  ? 
An'  now  he  '11  not  listen  to  rason  or  rhyme, 
He  's  strivin'  to  hurry  me  all  that  he  can. 
1  Come  on,  an'  ye  be  to  come  on  ! "  says  he, 
u  Ye  're  bound  for  the  Island,  to  live  wi*  me." 

See  Rachray  Island  beyont  in  the  bay, 
An*  the  dear  knows  what  they  be  doin'  out  there 
But  fishin'  an'  fightin'  an'  tearin'  away, 
An'  who  's  to  hindher,  an*  what  do  they  care  ? 
The  goodness  can  tell  what  'ud  happen  to  me 
When  Rachray  'ud  have  me,  anee,  anee  ! 

I  might  have  took  Pether  from  over  the  hill, 
A  dacent  poacher,  the  kind  poor  boy  : 
Could  I  keep  the  ould  places  about  me  still 
I  'd  never  set  foot  out  o'  sweet  Ballyvoy. 
My  sorra  on  Rachray,  the  could  sea-caves, 
An'  blackneck  divers,  an'  weary  ould  waves  ! 

I  '11  never  win  back  now,  whatever  may  fall, 
So  give  me  good  luck,  for  ye  '11  see  me  no  more ; 
Sure  an  Island  man  is  the  mischief  an'  all  — 
An'  me  that  never  was  married  before  ! 

Oh  think  o'  my  fate  when  ye  dance  at  a  fair, 
In  Rachray  there'  no  Christianity  there. 


23 


BIRDS 

OURE  maybe  ye  Ve  heard  the  storm-thrush 
^     Whistlin'  bould  in  March, 
Before  there'  a  primrose  peepin'  out, 

Or  a  wee  red  cone  on  the  larch ; 
Whistlm'  the  sun  to  come  out  o'  the  cloud, 

An'  the  wind  to  come  over  the  sea, 
But  for  all  he  can  whistle  so  clear  an'  loud, 

He  's  never  the  bird  for  me. 

Sure  maybe  ye  Ve  seen  the  song-thrush 

After  an  April  rain 
Slip  from  in-undher  the  drippin'  leaves, 

Wishful  to  sing  again ; 
An'  low  wi'  love  when  he  's  near  the  nest, 

An'  loud  from  the  top  o'  the  tree, 
But  for  all  he  can  flutter  the  heart  in  your  breast, 

He  's  never  the  bird  for  me. 

Sure  maybe  ye  Ve  heard  the  cushadoo 

Callin'  his  mate  in  May, 
When  one  sweet  thought  is  the  whole  of  his  life, 

An'  he  tells  it  the  one  sweet  way. 
But  my  heart  is  sore  at  the  cushadoo 

Filled  wid  his  own  soft  glee, 
Over  an'  over  his  u  me  an'  you  ! " 

He  's  never  the  bird  for  me. 


24 


Sure  maybe  ye  Ve  heard  the  red-breast 

Singin'  his  lone  on  a  thorn, 
Mindin'  himself  o'  the  dear  days  lost, 

Brave  wid  his  heart  forlorn. 
The  time  is  in  dark  November, 

An'  no  spring  hopes  has  he  : 
"  Remember,"  he  sings,  "remember  !  " 

Ay,  thon  9s  the  wee  bird  for  me. 


25 


JOHNEEN 

OURE  he's  five  months  old,  an'  he's  two 
^     foot  long, 

Baby  Johneen ; 
Watch  yerself  now,  for  he  's  terrible  sthrong, 

Baby  Johneen. 
An'  his  fists  '11  be  up  if  ye  make  any  slips, 
He  has  finger-ends  like  the  daisy-tips, 
But  he  '11  have  ye  attend  to  the  words  of  his  lips, 

Will  Johneen. 

There'  nobody  can  rightly  tell  the  colour  of  his 
eyes, 

This  Johneen ; 
For  they  're  partly  o'  the  earth  an'  still  they  're 
partly  o'  the  skies, 

Like  Johneen. 
So  far  as  he  's  thravelled  he 's  been  laughin'  all 

the  way, 
For  the  little  soul  is  quare  an'  wise,  the  little 

heart  is  gay ; 
An'  he  likes  the    merry   daffodils,    he   thinks 
they'd  do  to  play 

With  Johneen. 

He  '11  sail  a  boat  yet,  if  he  only  has  his  luck, 

Young  Johneen, 


26 


For  he  takes  to  the  wather  like  any  little  duck, 

Boy  Johneen ; 
Sure  them  are  the  hands  now  to  pull  on  a  rope, 
An'  nate  feet  for  walkin'  the  deck  on  a  slope, 
But  the  ship  she  must  wait  a  wee  while  yet,  I 
hope, 

For  Johneen. 

For  we  could  n't  do  wantin'  him,  not  just  yet, 

Och  Johneen ; 
'T  is  you  that  are  the  daisy,  an'  you  that  are  the 
pet, 

Wee  Johneen. 
Here 's  to  your  health,    an'    we  '11    dhrink    it 

to-night. 
Slainte  gal,  avic  machree  !  live  an'  do  right, 
Slainte  gal avourneen  !  may  your  days  be  bright, 

Johneen ! 


27 


"BEAUTY'S  A  FLOWER" 

Youth  9s  for  an  hour, 

Beauty  's  a  flower, 

But  love  is  the  jewel  that  wins  the  world. 

VT'OUTH  'S  for  an  hour,  an'  the  taste  o'  life 

■*■       is  sweet, 
Ailes  was  a  girl  that  stepped  on  two  bare  feet ; 
In  all  my  days  I  never  seen  the  one  as  fair  as 

she, 
I  'd  have  lost  my  life  for  Ailes,  an'  she  never 

cared  for  me. 

Beauty  's  a  flower,  an'  the  days  o'  life  are  long, 
There'  little  knowin'  who  may  live    to    sing 

another  song; 
For  Ailes  was  the  fairest,  but  another  is  my 

wife, 
An'  Mary  —  God  be  good  to  her!  —  is  all  I 

love  in  life. 

Youth  9s  for  an  hour, 

Beauty  's  a  flower, 

But  love  is  the  jewel  that  wins  the  world. 


28 


THE  BOY  FROM  BALLYTEARIM 

TTK  was  born  in  Bally tearim,  where  there' 

*  *     little  work  to  do, 

An'  the  longer  he  was  livin'  there  the  poorer 

still  he  grew; 
Says  he  till  all  belongin'  him,  "  Now    happy 

may  ye  be ! 
But  I  'm  off  to  find  me  fortune,"  sure  he  says, 

says  he. 

"  All  the  gold  in  Ballytearim  is  what 's  stickin' 

to  the  whin ; 
All  the  crows  in  Ballytearim  has  a  way  o'  gettin' 

thin." 
So  the  people  did  be  praisin'  him  the  year  he 

wint  away,  — 
M  Troth,  I  '11  hould  ye  can  do  it,"  sure  they 

says,  says  they. 

Och,  the  boy  'ud  still  be  thinkin'  long,  an'  he 

across  the  foam, 
An'  the  two  ould  hearts  be  thinkin'  long  that 

waited  for  him  home  : 
But  a  girl  that  sat  her  lone  an'  whiles,  her  head 

upon  her  knee, 
Would  be  sighin'   low  for  sorra,  not  a  word 

says  she. 


29 


He  won  home  to  Ballytearim,  an*  the  two  Were 

livin'  yet, 
When  he  heard  where  she  was  lyin'  now  the 

eyes  of  him  were  wet ; 
"  Faith,  here 's  me  two  fists  full  o'  gold,  an' 

little  good  to  me 
When  I  '11  never  meet  an*  kiss  her/'  sure  he 

says,  says  he. 

t 

Then  the  boy  from   Ballytearim  set  his  face 

another  road, 
An'  whatever  luck  has  followed  him  was  never 

rightly  knowed  : 
But  still  it 's  truth  I  'm  tellin'  ye  —  or  may  I 

never  sin !  — 
All  the  gold  in  Ballytearim  is  what 's  stickin'  to 

the  whin. 


30 


I  MIND  THE  DAY 

I  MIND  the  day  I  'd  wish  I  was  a  say-gull 
flyin'  far, 
For  then  I  'd  fly  an'  find  you  in  the  West ; 
An'  I  'd  wish  I  was  a  little  rose  as  sweet  as  roses 
are, 
For  then  you  'd  maybe  wear  it  on  your  breast, 

Achray  ! 
You  'd  maybe  take  an'  wear  it  on  your  breast. 

I  a  wish  I  could  be  living  near,  to  love  you  day 
an'  night, 
To  let  no  throuble  touch  you  or  annoy ; 
I  'd  wish  I  could  be  dyin'  here  to  rise  a  spirit 
light, 
If  Them  above  'ud  let  me  bring  you  joy, 

Achray  ! 
If  Them  above  'ud  let  me  win  you  joy. 

An'  now  I  wish  no  wishes,  nor  ever  fall  a  tear, 

Nor  take  a  thought  beyont  the  way  I  'm  led  : 

I  mind  the  day  that 's  over-by,  an'  bless  the  day 

that's  here, 

There  be  to  come  a  day  when  we  '11  be  dead, 

Achray  ! 
A  longer,  lighter  day  when  we  '11  be  dead. 


31 


GRACE  FOR  LIGHT 

\X7HEN  we  were  little  childer  we  had  a 
"  "        quare  wee  house, 
Away    up    in    the   heather  by  the   head  o' 
Brabla'  burn; 
The  hares  we  fd  see  them  scootin',  an'  we  'd 
hear  the  crowin'  grouse, 
An'  when  we  ?d  all  be  in  at  night  ye  'd  not 
get  room  to  turn. 

The  youngest  two  She  'd  put  to  bed,  their  faces 
to  the  wall, 
An'  the  lave  of  us  could  sit  aroun',  just  any- 
where we  might; 
Herself  'ud  take  the  rush-dip  an'  light  it  for  us 
all, 
An'  '    God  be  thanked  !  '  she  would  say,  — 
"now  we  have  a  light" 

Then  we  be  to  quet  the  laughin'  an'  pushin'  on 

the  floor, 
An'  think  on  One  who  called  us  to  come  and 

be  forgiven ; 
Himself  'ud  put  his  pipe  down,  an'  say  the  good 

word  more, 

May  the  Lamb  o'  God  lead  us  all  to  the 

Light  o'  Heaven  ! 


32 


There'  a  wheen  things  that  used  to  be  an'  now 
has  had  their  day, 
The  nine  Glens  of  Antrim  can  show  ye  many 
a  sight ; 
But  not  the  quare  wee  house  where  we  lived  up 
Brabla'  way, 
Nor  a  child  in  all  the  nine  Glens  that  knows 
the  grace  for  light. 


33 


THE  GRAND  MATCH 

P\ENNIS  was  hearty  when  Dennis  was  young, 
*"^      High  was  his  step  in  the  jig  that  he  sprung, 
He  had  the  looks  an'  the  sootherin'  tongue,  — 
An'  he  wanted  a  girl  wid  a  fortune. 

Nannie  was  grey-eyed  an'  Nannie  was  tall, 
Fair  was  the  face  hid  in-undher  her  shawl, 
Troth  !  an'  he  liked  her  the  best  o'  them  all,  — 
But  she'  d  not  a  traneen  to  her  fortune. 

He  be  to  look  out  for  a  likelier  match, 
So  he  married  a  girl  that  was  counted  a  catch, 
An'  as  ugly  as  need  be,  the  dark  little  patch,  — 
But  that  was  a  thrifle,  he  tould  her. 

She  brought  him  her  good-lookin'  gold  to  admire, 
She  brought  him  her  good-lookin'  cows  to  his  byre, 
But  far  from  good-lookin'  she  sat  by  his  fire,  — 
An'  paid  him  that  "  thrifle  "  he  tould  her. 

He  met  pretty  Nan  when  a  month  had  gone  by, 
An'  he  thought  like  a  fool  to  get  round  her  he  'd  try ; 
Wid  a  smile  on  her  lip  an'  a  spark  in  her  eye, 
She  said,  "How  is  the  woman  that  owns  ye?" 


34 


Och,  never  be  tellin'  the  life  that  he's  led  ! 
Sure  many  's  the  night  that  he  il  wish  himself  dead, 
For  the  sake  o'  two  eyes  in  a  pretty  girl's  head,  — 
An'  the  tongue  o'  the  woman  that  owns  him. 


35 


THE  SAILOR  MAN 

CURE  a  terrible  time  I  was  out  o'  the  way, 

^     Over  the  sea,  over  the  sea, 

Till  I  come  back  to  Ireland  one  sunny  day,  — 

Betther  for  me,  betther  for  me. 
The  first  time  me  foot  got  the  feel  o'  the  ground 

I  was  sthrollin'  along  in  an  Irish  city, 
That  has  n't  its  aquil  the  world  around 

For  the  air  that  is  sweet  an'  the  girls  that  are  pretty. 

Light  on  their  feet  now  they  passed  me  an'  sped, 

Give  you  me  word,  give  you  me  word, 
Every  girl  wid  a  turn  o'  the  head 

Just  like  a  bird,  just  like  a  bird ; 
An'  the  lashes  so  thick  round  their  beautiful  eyes 

Shinin,  to  tell  you  it  's  fair  time  o'  day  wid  them, 
Back  in  me  heart  wid  a  kind  o'  surprise 

I  think  how  the  Irish  girls  has  the  way  wid  them  ! 

Och  man  alive  !  but  it 's  little  ye  know 

That  never  was  there,  never  was  there. 
Look  where  ye  like  for  them,  long  may  ye  go,  — 

What  do  I  care?  what  do  I  care? 
Plenty  as  blackberries  where  will  ye  find 

Rare  pretty  girls  not  by  two  nor  by  three  o'  them  ? 
Only  just  there  where  they  grow,  d*  ye  mind 

Still  like  the  blackberries,  more  than  ye  see  o'  them. 


36 


Long,  long  away,  an'  no  matther  how  far, 

'T  is  the  girls  that  I  miss,  the  girls  that  I  miss  : 
Women  are  round  ye  wherever  ye  are 

Not  worth  a  kiss,  not  worth  a  kiss. 
Over  in  Ireland  many  's  the  one,  — 

Well  do  I  know,  that  has  nothing  to  say  wid  them,  - 
Sweeter  than  anythin'  undher  the  sun, 

Och,  't  is  the  Irish  girls  has  the  way  wid  them  ! 


37 


AT  SEA 

'nr^  IS  the  long  blue  Head  o'  Garron 

■*■  From  the  sea, 

Och,  we  're  sailin'  past  the  Garron 
On  the  sea. 
Now  Glen  Ariff  lies  behind, 
Where  the  waters  fall  an'  wind 
By  the  willows  o'  Glen  Ariff  to  the  sea. 

Ould  Luirgedan  rises  green 

By  the  sea, 
Ay,  he  stands  between  the  Glens 

An'  the  sea. 
Now  we  're  past  the  darklin'  caves, 
Where  the  breakin'  summer  waves 
Wandher  in  wi'  their  trouble  from  the  sea. 

But  Cushendun  lies  nearer 

To  the  sea, 

An'  thon  9s  a  shore  is  dearer 

Still  to  me, 

For  the  land  that  I  am  leavin' 

Sure  the  heart  I  have  is  grievin', 

But  the  ship  has  set  her  sails  for  the  sea. 

Och,  what 's  this  is  deeper 

Than  the  sea? 


38 


An'  what 's  this  is  stronger 

Nor  the  sea  ? 
When  the  call  is  "  all  or  none," 
An'  the  answer  "  all  for  one," 
Then  we  be  to  sail  away  across  the  sea. 


39 


"LOOKIN'  BACK" 

\I7ATHERS  o'  Moyle  an'  the  white  gulls  flyin', 

"  *        Since  I  was  near  ye  what  have  I  seen  ? 
Deep  great  seas,  an'  a  sthrong  wind  sighin* 
Night  an'  day  where  the  waves  are  green. 
S truth  na  Moile,  the  wind  goes  sighin' 
Over  a  waste  o'  wathers  green. 

Slemish  an'  Trostan,  dark  wi'  heather, 
High  are  the  Rockies,  airy-blue; 
Sure  ye  have  snows  in  the  winter  weather, 
Here  they  're  lyin'  the  long  year  through. 
Snows  are  fair  in  the  summer  weather, 
Och,  an  the  shadows  between  are  blue ! 

Lone  Glen  Dun  an'  the  wild  glen  flowers, 
Little  ye  know  if  the  prairie  is  sweet. 
Roses  for  miles,  an'  redder  than  ours 
Spring  here  undher  the  horses'  feet, 
Ay,  an'  the  black-eyed  gold  sunflowers,  — 
Not  as  the  glen  flowers  small  an'  sweet. 

Wathers  o'  Moyle,  I  hear  ye  callin' 
Clearer  for  half  o'  the  world  between, 
Antrim  hills  an'  the  wet  rain  fallin' 
Whiles  ye  are  nearer  than  snow-tops  keen : 
Dreams  o'  the  night  an'  a  night  wind  callin'  — 
What  is  the  half  o'  the  world  between  ? 


40 


THE  NORTH-WEST  — CANADA 

/^\H  would  ye  hear,  and  would  ye  hear 
^-^     Of  the  windy,  wide  North-West  ? 
Faith  !  't  is  a  land  as  green  as  the  sea, 
That  rolls  as  far  and  rolls  as  free, 
With  drifts  of  flowers,  so  many  there  be, 
Where  the  cattle  roam  and  rest. 

Oh  could  ye  see,  and  could  ye  see 

The  great  gold  skies  so  clear, 
The  rivers  that  race  through  the  pine-shade  dark, 
The  mountainous  snows  that  take  no  mark, 
Sun-lit  and  high  on  the  Rockies  stark, 
So  far  they  seem  as  near. 

Then  could  ye  feel,  and  could  ye  feel 
How  fresh  is  a  western  night ! 
When  the  long  land-breezes  rise  and  pass 
And  sigh  in  the  rustling  prairie  grass, 
When  the  dark-blue  skies  are  clear  as  glass, 
And  the  same  old  stars  are  bright. 

But  could  ye  know,  and  for  ever  know 

The  word  of  the  young  North-West ! 
A  word  she  breathes  to  the  true  and  bold, 
A  word  misknown  to  the  false  and  cold, 
A  word  that  never  was  spoken  or  sold, 
But  the  one  that  knows  is  blest. 


41 


BACK  TO  IRELAND 

/^\H  tell  me  will  I  ever  win  to  Ireland  again, 
^^     A  store  !  from  the  far  North-West? 
Have  we  given  all    the   rainbows,   an'   green 
woods  an'  rain, 
For  the  suns  an'  the  snows  o'  the  West  ? 
uThem  that  goes  to  Ireland  must  thravel  night 

an'  day, 
An'  them  that  goes  to  Ireland  must  sail  across 

the  say, 
For  the  len'th  of  here  to  Ireland  is  half  the 

world  away, — 
An'  you  '11  lave  your  heart  behind  you  in  the 
West. 
Set  your  face  for  Ireland, 
Kiss  your  friends  in  Ireland, 
But  lave   your  heart  behind   you  in  the 
West." 

On  a  dim  an'  shiny  mornm'  the  ship  she  comes 

to  land, 
Early,  oh  early  in  the  mornin', 
The  silver  wathers  o'  the  Foyle  go  slidin'  to 

the  strand, 
Whisperin',  "Ye 're  welcome  in  the  mornin\" 
There  's  darkness  on  the  holy  hills  I  know  are 

close  aroun', 


42 


But  the  stars  are  shinirT  up  the  sky,  the  stars 

are  shinin'  down, 
They  make  a  golden  cross  above,  they  make  a 

golden  crown, 
An'  meself  could  tell  ye  why,  —  in  the  mornin\ 
Sure  an'  this  is  Ireland, 
Thank  God  for  Ireland  ! 
I  'm  comin'  back  to  Ireland  the  mornin'. 


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